to hear that Mr. BRADSHAW is no longer alive. Whatever one thinks
of his work one is inclined to think of him as a living personality,
working laboriously at some terminus--probably at the Charing Cross
Hotel. But it is not so. He died, in fact, in 1853. His first book--or
rather the first edition of his book[1] was published in 1839; yet,
unlike the author, it still lives. He is, in fact, the supreme example
of the posthumous serial writer. I have no information about Mr.
DEBRETT and Mr. BURKE, but the style and substance of their work are
relatively so flimsy that one is justified, I think, in neglecting
them. In any case their public is a limited one. So, of course, is Mr.
BRADSHAW'S; but it is better than theirs. Mr. DEBRETT'S book we read
idly in an idle hour; when we read Mr. BRADSHAW'S it is because we
feel that we simply must; and that perhaps is the surest test of
genius.

It is no wonder that in some circles Mr. BRADSHAW holds a position
comparable only to the position of HOMER. I once knew an elderly
clergyman who knew the whole of Mr. BRADSHAW'S book by heart. He could
tell you without hesitation the time of any train from anywhere to
anywhere else. He looked forward each month to the new number, as
other people look forward to the new numbers of magazines. When it
came he skimmed eagerly through its pages and noted with a fierce
excitement that they had taken off the 5.30 from Larne Harbour, or
that the 7.30 from Galashiels was stopping that month at Shankend. He
knew all the connections; he knew all the restaurant trains; and, if
you mentioned the 6.15 to Little Buxton, he could tell you offhand
whether it was a Saturdays Only or a Saturdays Excepted.

This is the exact truth, and I gathered that he was not unique. It
seems that there is a Bradshaw cult; there may even be a Bradshaw